dandelions

I have a long history with dandelions, shaped mostly by a childhood spent eating the greens against my will. There is also the embarrassment that involved picking dandelions, which my fellow youths had no idea were actually edible greens. Such activities, especially at a young age, are very traumatizing (at least in that very moment). But I do credit dandelions for being where my excitement and interest in foraging began.

Like many strong willed, and well behaved children, I would eat almost anything that my parents made for me. Dandelions, and beets, were among my least favorite foods. When we had Russian salad, I would pick the beets out, and eat them by themselves, so that they would not interfere with the good taste of beans, pickles, and other ingredients. They tasted like the earth…well, more like dirt, a taste sensation that my tongue transmitted negatively to my brain. I also found beets strange because they caused your hands to look like they were bleeding, but that story about my overactive imagination is best left for another time.

Dandelions fascinated me, even if they tasted like poison (there goes that imagination again – reading about Rasputin led to a lot of foods being labeled poisonous in my mind). I did not know who first thought to eat them, and knowing that my grandmother liked them made the greens that more appealing. I loved everything my grandmother made me growing up, and still prefer her cooking when I visit back home. Perhaps it was because I would get slightly excited when I was picking them, or because I really wanted to like what the adults around me said was delicious and good for me, and so I went into each eating session full of the best I-can-do-it enthusiasm I could muster. Every attempt to digest the dandelions, usually cooked with oil, and topped with vinegar and salt, was a pure defeat.

Picking was different though, it was fun (usually when other kids were not around), because I would really invest my energies into doing the best job possible. I would relish the moment when a full plant would come out with roots intact. Grabbing the whole dandelion plant, even digging a little of the dirt to unearth more of it for a firmer hold, and then the quick, swift pull was ever so gratifying. And the more I did this, the more I started to see the difference between young and old plants, good (ie not too bitter) and bad tasting greens. The knowledge, mixed with a sense of accomplishment overflowed when I was praised for a job well done, were slowly creating a reference guide in my mind.

And now I love dandelions. It has not been more than 15 years since those first impressions of the greens, but I cannot praise them enough when I have them sauteed with oil and vinegar, or blanched and used for tarts.  The slightly bitter taste is something I look forward to. It is slightly harder to find them growing wild in the city though, as they tend to be among the first weeds that are removed. I balk at the $3 (or more) price tag for a bunch. Now it is fashionable to grow them as normally as one would other vegetables, which reminds me of a wonderful phrase one of my coworkers says, “The term organic for my grandmother and her generation was called food.” I am glad, ultimately, that no children have to grow up with the taunting of their friends for picking weeds. And of course, for being able to find that even dandelions can overcome their original, and negative, reputation, and not just from my personal viewpoint.

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